


Let Me Whisper in Your Ear

by inoubliable



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Condoms, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Humor, Non-Explicit Sex, Rule 63, Stiles ain't yo baby mama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Stiles is a girl and she's having sex with Derek on the regular. And then there's something about a condom breaking, and were-babies would be pretty cute, but she should probably get through high school first.</p><p>-</p><p>“You need to take me to the store.” And maybe she looks as horrified as she feels, because Derek has put some of his clothes on. His abs are covered, at least, which is great for the sake of her general effectiveness. Stiles is no less than 90% less productive when Derek is shirtless. These are facts. It’s in a powerpoint, somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Wait (The Whisper Song) by the Ying Yang Twins, because it's the little things. Runner up lyric was "they say a closed mouth don't get fed so I don't mind asking for head."
> 
> Edit: [Nope, I wrote that one, too.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/832381)

Stiles doesn’t know when this became, like, a thing.

Fucking Derek, she means. Letting him fuck her, rather. Asking him to. He’d say she begged, but she _didn’t_ , not even when he rubbed his scruff up the inside of her thigh and just _breathed_ , like the douchebag he is.

But, yeah. Sex with Derek Hale. Who would have thought, right?

It’s exactly what she expected – except not really, not at all. He’s surprisingly nice about it, for all the shoving around it took to get them here, like this, braced between his elbows, gasping into the hot kisses he presses to her mouth. He kisses with the same militant control he uses on everything else, and he fucks in short, sharp thrusts, holds her hips down if she even hints at setting the pace. And, okay, maybe that doesn’t _sound_ nice, but. He doesn’t snarl, or growl, or bite, the way one might expect. He’s not an _animal_ about it. He’s… Derek.

(The longer all this goes on, the more trouble she’s having explaining exactly what that means.)

They’re not… they’re not, like, _together_ , because that would be strange and stupid and stupidly strange. But she doesn’t hide the bruises he sucks into her throat, and more often than not he spends his nights climbing through the bedroom window she keeps unlocked, so it’s almost like they’re… well. Friends with benefits sounds wrong, somehow. Derek Hale is a lot of things, but he’s not really her _friend_.

Which, okay, is weird to think when he’s this deep inside of her, hips grinding slow right up against hers with his fingers playing just this side of too-much on her clit. He’s close. Wants to get her off one last time; some testosterone-driven urge to make her come for the third- no, wait, fourth- time before he finally finishes off. Maybe it’s an Alpha thing.

She doesn’t care either way, because, _whoa_. Derek shifts his hips in a particularly crafty way and it’s suddenly all bright-hot sensation, slick and _sensitive_. Her body jerks, her toes curl, and she probably wouldn’t have even needed the way he brushes his knuckles between her legs. She’s _coming_ , hard and fast and with the sound of his name gasped against his stubbled jaw.

Stiles feels it when Derek comes. Which is… different. She’s loopy, all smiles and sunshine from the force of her orgasm, but she’s not _stupid_ , and it shouldn’t feel like that. They’ve done this a lot, like a _lot_ a lot, and this isn’t… something’s off.

She doesn’t know a whole lot about condoms, but she thinks that when Derek pulls out, it isn’t supposed to be coated with come _on both sides_.

Turns out panic is pretty great at stealing the afterglow. “Is that,” she says, “Did you,” and for once, words fail her.

Derek, master of verbal communication that he is, grunts. Ties it off and throws it in the bin beside her bed. Which, gross. That seriously belongs down the toilet. If she weren’t having a mild panic attack, she would be taking it up with management.

As it is, she’s a little preoccupied with the fact that he _came inside of her_. She got The Talk, featuring a blushing, fumbling father and enough mutual mortification to last her a lifetime. She might have been a virgin before Derek Hale and his brooding eyebrows and disgustingly perfect abs, but she knows how this stuff works, okay?

“Get dressed,” she says, sliding out from beneath the sheet, and this is a night of firsts, because usually she takes her time with the privilege that is Derek Hale naked.

Then again, _usually_ , she doesn’t have his come sticky between her thighs.

Derek kind of just… stares. He does that a lot, actually, and she’s gotten really good at this whole Sherlock Holmes thing, pinpointing a twitch of the eyebrow or tilt of the chin to sleuth out what he isn’t saying.

This expression is Number 76 in the Hale Handbook: exasperation. She gets this one a lot.

“Get _dressed_ ,” she says again, throwing a stray sock in his direction where she finds it on top of her jeans. “We have to go.”

“Go,” Derek repeats, in the way normal people would say, “Go _where_?” Derek doesn’t ever really ask questions so much as he demands explanations.

And _honestly_ – if Stiles ever does decide to have kids with this guy, she hopes they get her brains. And his looks. Her train of thought is derailed for a moment on the possible combinations of their genetic makeup.

A were-baby would probably be really cute, she thinks. Pregnant at seventeen, less so. Morning sickness isn’t a good look for anyone, and maternity jeans are out this year. Lydia Martin would be ruthless. And her _dad_ –

“You need to take me to the store.” And maybe she looks as horrified as she feels, because Derek has put some of his clothes on. His abs are covered, at least, which is great for the sake of her general effectiveness. Stiles is no less than 90% less productive when Derek is shirtless. These are facts. It’s in a powerpoint, somewhere.

Derek has perfected the art of expressing ‘your psychosis is testing my patience’ with his eyebrows. “It’s past midnight.”

“Luckily,” and maybe she’s a little shrill, but her Jeep’s last leg gave out last week and she thinks he’d probably eviscerate her if she even _thought_ about taking his Camaro, which, hey, would actually solve a lot of problems except for the fact that she likes _living_ , thanks very much, “CVS is 24/7.”

Logic is almost as bad as wolfbane to Derek. “I’m not taking you to the store,” he says, Alpha voice full-force. And when is he going to learn it _doesn’t work on her_. Unless they’re in bed, because, yeah. Hot.

There’s an argument to be made, but Derek is stubborn to the last, and he has already taken his shirt off again. It’s like he knows her weakness. There’s a direct correlation of Stiles’ mental productivity to how much skin Derek has exposed.

They could always go tomorrow, she reasons, a little fuzzily.

It’s not a hardship to crawl back into bed with the warm wall of muscle that is Derek Hale. Not many people get this chance. Actually, she thinks she’s, like, the second in the history of ever – which, _wow_. Life achievement unlocked.

Stiles sighs, relaxes into the cradle of his arms. His breath huffs against the shell of her ear; his thumb smooths over the sharp angle of her hip. He smells like sweat and sex and something stupidly woodsy, musky, the kind of smell she wants to roll her eyes at because it’s so _Derek Hale_.

She thinks maybe he’s asleep when she laces her fingers through his and whispers, “I like Samantha.”

Derek is really, really bad at asking questions – probably something to do with admitting Stiles knows something he doesn’t, which shouldn’t even be an issue anymore, because let’s face it, she’s totally the brains of this operation. But his hand twitches in hers and he snuffles at the back of her neck. Classic Hale Handbook indicators of ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

“For the name,” she clarifies. Goes on with, “We can even shorten it to Sam, if it’s a boy. We can’t have a baby and not give it a name, can we?”

Stiles thinks she would do anything in that moment – thinks she would take the freaking _bite_ – if it meant seeing his face.

But she’ll settle for the way he rolls out of bed, preternaturally fast, and the abject horror of his tone when he grits out, “Get in the car.”

Sometimes, she thinks Derek is lucky she isn’t a werewolf. She does enough damage as a human.

She pulls on her jeans and makes a mental note to research ‘Alpha females’ when they get back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by several comments.

It’s one in the morning, and the pharmacy smells like old people and cough syrup. The man in the white lab coat stares at them from behind the counter. Derek has his shoulders turned down into his leather jacket, hands shoved in the pockets, looking every bit the shady motherfucker that he is. Stiles is half-hoping he gets strip-searched.

She’s wandering aimlessly down the travel aisle, picking up and putting back various 3-ounce versions of shampoos and toothpastes. “Look at this!” she says once, waving a folding toothbrush in Derek’s direction because it’s _cool_. It looks like a _switchblade_.

He doesn’t say “Stop screwing around,” but his expression does.

She hasn’t made it to the pharmacy counter yet. She practiced what she would say in her head the whole way here, but the man in the coat has her completely derailed. She doesn’t know him—and thank _God_ for that—but he has a frown kind of like her father’s and she feels sick.

 _Is this what morning sickness would feel like?_ she wonders absently, and makes it to the end of the aisle, as close to the counter as she’s come yet.

“Can I help you find anything?” the man calls finally, wavering between helpful and hesitant. Stiles realizes that Derek is at her back, hovering like the creep he is. God, if the poor guy doesn’t already think they’re some punk kids about to bust the place up, he’s probably convinced she’s been kidnapped by this weirdo in a leather jacket.

When she blurts out, “I need Plan B,” it’s half just to see the look on his face.

To the man’s credit, he almost manages not to look concerned. But his hand twitches, and for a wild, panicked second, she thinks he’s going to call the cops. _Don’t,_ she almost says, because even if they got out in time, avoided the trouble, he’s seen her face, could describe her and Derek both. Her dad is the _sheriff_. He’s made his living off of investigative work for as long as Stiles has been alive. Longer, even. Some guy raving about a teenage girl and her surly, scowling boyfriend/abductor? He’d figure it out in a second. ‘What were they after?’ he’d ask, and when the pharmacist told him an _emergency contraceptive_ …

Except the man is reaching his hand out to her, not the phone mounted on the wall.

“I need to see your ID,” he says, expression carefully blank. So blank she _knows_ he’s judging her. She keeps her head down as she passes the card over, the tips of her ears burning. It occurs to her just as he hands it back that she isn’t eighteen, not yet, but it doesn’t seem to matter because he rings her up anyway. California must be one of those great states that doesn’t actively encourage teenage pregnancy. Go America.

She makes Derek pay, because like _hell_ is she putting this on her card. As urgent as the situation is, she’s like, ninety percent sure this isn’t what her dad meant when he said _for emergencies only_. He doesn’t protest, which is… weird, but he also doesn’t thank the pharmacist when he hands the bag over, so it’s not like she’s stepped fully into the Twilight Zone.

Except when they’re leaving, Derek kisses her in the candy aisle, drags her close and gets all up in her space. And it’s nice, it is, but he feels weirdly… tense, like his shoulders are all bunched up beneath the leather, and he huffs a breath against her cheek that sounds both like a sigh and an aborted attempt to speak.

“What?” she says, because it’s so not fair to shut her out _now_. Aren’t pregnancy scares supposed to bring couples together? Not that they’re a couple. Or that she was ever actually pregnant. Technicalities. “What is it?”

It takes him a minute to say, “One day, right?” and even longer for her to realize what that even means.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, because no one has ever accused her of being particularly eloquent in the face of surprise. Or ever. “Oh my God, you want me to have your children. You want me to be the mother of your were-babies.”

And he stares, only the tiniest hint of man-pain on his face, and _oh_ , she realizes, _he’s serious_.

Since the beginning of all this (since the first day she met him and his brooding eyebrows), she’s kept a mental checklist of all things Derek Hale. It helps in situations such as these, when figuring him out is almost as easy and understandable as quantum physics.

He’s a jerk. He’s bossy, and rude, and he doesn’t take direction very well (which, okay, Alpha… whatever). He intimidates her and frustrates her and sometimes she considers taking the bite just to have the strength to damage him with a punch to the face. When she met him, he brought with him a world of hurt, of chaos, of constant worry. And his morning breath is _rank_.

But there are good things, too. That rare little smile he gives when he stops acting like she’s not funny. The way he rubs his fingers across her hipbone, back and forth, when he thinks she’s asleep. How he’ll bury his face in her hair and pretend he’s not sniffing.

Stiles thinks, suddenly, apropos of practically _nothing_ , that she might have fallen in love with Derek. Thinks maybe it happened a long time ago.

She isn’t as traumatized about it as she maybe should be.

And yeah, okay. It’s not like she had a healthy sense of self-preservation in the first place. She’s sleeping with a _werewolf_.

Derek looks vaguely like he’s about to shrink away into the broody sanctuary of his jacket, so she flings her arms around him, draws him right back into her.

“Not yet,” she says, because being in love doesn’t mean she’s any less panicky at the thought of being a teenage mother. “But one day.”

And she kisses him back, right there with an emergency contraceptive crushed between them, in the candy aisle of CVS Pharmacy, in front of God and the gummy bears both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale and the Brooding Eyebrows sounds like an indie band. Over and out.


End file.
